


every breath a choice

by Damkianna



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Death Fix, Extra Treat, Fix-It, Gen, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Angela wakes from a dream, and makes a slightly different decision.





	every breath a choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turtlebook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlebook/gifts).



> I couldn't resist the idea of Angela having some reason to reach Isabel before she jumped, turtlebook—thank you so much for the excuse to write it, and happy ToT! :D

 

 

Angela wakes with a gasp, grabbing for something, anything—

For the edge of her mattress. Because that's what's there; because she's in her bed, in her apartment, at some ungodly hour of the morning.

She catches her breath, flops back onto her pillow and closes her eyes. Jesus. She stretches out her hands, grimacing absently. She'd clawed hard, going for the mattress's corner, and her knuckles are aching.

What had she been doing, in the dream?

Falling, she thinks. Falling—and it's not that strange, she's dreamt of falling before. Doesn't everyone?

But she thinks about it, grasps after the vague snatches of memory, and feels her gut lurch in foreboding. The idea of falling is somehow profound, ominous.

She opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling, and then scrubs her hands across her face. No. No, no, no. She'd decided, years and years ago, that she was done with this. These feelings she gets, this sudden weird certainty that she needs to act, that there's a fork in the road ahead that no one else can see—no. It's bullshit.

"It's bullshit," she tells the ceiling, and from out in the living room somewhere, Duck meows curiously in response.

But it's too late. Her stomach is tight with anxiety, uncertainty, the terrible sick feeling that there's something important she hasn't done. And it's not real, not based on anything valid—but hell if she's going to be able to go back to sleep like this.

"Crap," she says to Duck, who meows again.

She rolls over and checks the clock. Way, way too early to even think about heading to the station. What else can she do, at this hour? Go for groceries, maybe, at one of those 24-hour places; her fridge is getting bare, and she'd meant to do it last weekend and then got called in instead. Hadn't gotten around to it. Or just take a walk. Up on the roof, or down the street to the park. Or—

She squeezes her eyes shut, rubs until the backs of her eyelids throw sparks. It's because of the feeling, that's all. Even when she ignores them, feelings like that always make her think of Isabel.

Hospitals run 24/7, even if it's not exactly visiting hours. Besides, they know her, and she's a cop. They'd let her in.

It doesn't have to have anything to do with the feeling. She can ignore the sudden sense of certainty, of urgency. She's just—going to go visit Isabel. Because she woke up, and she can't get back to sleep, and she might as well.

That's all it is, she tells herself, and then she rolls out of bed and dresses, quick, methodical, and doesn't think about falling; doesn't think about how many floors high the hospital is; doesn't think about the half-remembered flutter of a medical wristband.

It was just a dream, and she's just going to visit Isabel, and no one's going to fall off of anything.

 

 


End file.
